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Thursday, December 27, 2012

fem·i·nism/ˈfɛm əˌnɪz əm/ [fem-uh-niz-uh m] noun 1. the doctrine advocating social, political, and all other rights of women equal to those of men. 2. ( sometimes initial capital letter ) an organized movement for the attainment of such rights for women. 3. feminine character.

Recently my friend Superbetsy blogged, in a wonderfully snarky way, about cosplay at various geeky conventions. A commenter took issue with the subject as "unfeminist" and irrationally attacked the post based on...well, stupid. Phenomenally, remarkably, blindly stupid. She went on and on about how basic female grooming (plucking eyebrows, shaving legs, wearing makeup, etc) only fed the patriarchal inequality in this country.

Fucking REALLY? You judgemental, inexperienced, self-righteous IDIOT.

Instead of standing together, "feminists" of this ilk attack any woman who enjoys being female...never mind that same female may make significantly more money than her spouse, volunteer at a shelter, and help other women build themselves up. "Feminists" like the commenter put the same "ist" into feminism that goes with "race," "sex," "age," or any other reason to exclude a group with bigotry.

All over the world, women are subjected to various sorts of domestic violence. Women are sold as sex slaves. Women are prevented from receiving education, medical care, dignity, and in many cases life.

In India, a woman was gang raped to the extent her attackers RIPPED OUT PIECES OF HER INTESTINE. Yeah. That didn't make US news outlets, but that's why she's still in critical condition. She was on a supposedly safe bus. With her boyfriend.

In Afghanistan, a pre-teen was shot by the Taliban for the horrific crime of her "dishonorable" desire to GET AN EDUCATION.

In the United States:

a college student daring to speak up for the right to control her own reproductive system is called a slut publicly by media and politicians in an attempt to shame her into silence.

The same politicians try to say rape isn't real if a woman gets pregnant, that pregnancy can't happen if it was REALLY rape.

A girlfriend and mother is killed by her cheating boyfriend for the uppity crime of saying he can't fuck other women and be with her. He then killed himself, and there are SHRINES of mourning for HIM. Because he was an NFL player...and a selfish murderer who deprived his daughter of her mother over a goddamn argument.

Yeah. Let's talk about what feminism really is, shall we?

Feminism isn't about whether or not wearing makeup, plucking your eyebrows, wearing high heels, trying to attract a member of the same or opposite sex makes you more or less a woman. It's about equality, and enjoying that I'm a woman doesn't change my belief that the sexes should be treated equally and women shouldn't have to face degradation, torture, and violence just for having a vagina. Feminism means if a woman chooses to fill a traditional role she has the right to do so, just as if a woman chooses to get an advanced education and become an entrepreneur she has the right to do that too.

I'm not concerned whether my looks, my choice in footwear, clothes or grooming feed a patriarchal society. I'm concerned about important things that will CHANGE society, like making safety, dignity, respect, equality, education, and opportunity available for women AND men.

Is it idealistic? Of course it is: that's a long road all over the world. But it instantly pisses me off to hear self-righteous bitches judge other women for their choices while there are so many out there that don't HAVE those choices. Because the "ist" in feminist can all to easily forget that if equality is what we're after, men are equal to us, too.

Updated: in Italy, the Church says it's YOUR fault for your husband beating you. If you cooked/cleaned/wore differnt clothes and were totally dependent on your husband, he wouldn't beat you. Between this article and the Pope's recent assertions that people who "choose" to be gay are denying their humanity (thereby implying GLBT people are less human), I wonder if the Vatican isn't purposefully trying to alienate people. Italians, by the way, are livid over this "if you acted better he wouldn't beat you" crap.

Tuesday, December 11, 2012

I was observed recently as being...inconsistent...between who I appear to be and who I am. It's a fair observation given by one of the slight handful of people in the world who know the real me, and 100% true in the context of the conversation. This post will likely be long and self-indulgent attempt to reconcile a few of the inconsistencies with bare, painful truth. Feel free to stop reading this and go back to a funny post here.

I AM inconsistent: I present a certain face with certain qualities I admire to the world: strength, self-confidence, surety, humor...all the qualities I think are valued by others. All the things I'd like to be all the time. On rare occasions when I'm feeling particularly good I AM the way I present. On those days I'm funny, clever, happy with myself and my accomplishments so far and enthusiastically passionate about life. In all honesty, those days are treasured rarities in my universe that I'm trying to learn to allow more often. I'd prefer they be the norm, after all.
Most of the time I use my public face as a combination of shield and bolster. It's actually fairly exhausting. Emotional energy is a well, and eventually that well runs low, the flow becomes silty and clogged, and I slow down. I am a person who refreshes the well with periods of relaxing alone-time (books, Lifetime TV, walks, repeated viewings of Gladiator...you know, silly mindless things) not by being with others. I'm actually pretty envious of all you folk who get energized and excited about parties and social situations. I NEED that bit of time every week to sustain.

The real person underneath is...sigh...well hidden. This causes an issue if I let anyone in past a certain point, because ultimately that person discovers I've been untruthful about who I really am all along, and that's probably unfair. How can I be enough and loved just as I am if you can't see what I REALLY am until it's too late? Ah, conundrums that feed the demons.

It's something I've been working on for a long time, actually, when I have enough in my emotional well to work on myself. Sometimes, the well just fucking dries up. I've worked on myself enough to USUALLY be able to head the bastard off at the pass before he weasels his way into my brain like a fucking Khan earworm. Sometimes I fail.

Today I've failed. Since it's the Holidays and that's likely a part of the depression heavily holding me down, I envision it as this:
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Holiday cheer my ASS. I'm coming for you...

﻿

Last night the same someone said "I wish I could go back and find the bastard(s) who made you feel so worthless and ..." well, the graphically violent nature of the comment probably doesn't need to be repeated. It was one of those things most people would likely be horrified and offended by, but was an utterly sweet thing to say to me.

I know where my self-loathing comes from. I know where the unworthiness comes from. I also know the reason I'm still here after those feelings hit me in wave after wave is something my dad said to me once when I was really young: suicide is the most selfish thing you can do to those who love you. All the bullying, all the nastiness, all the isolation that fed my genetic pre-disposition to depression is tempered by that statement, because I've always been more concerned with others' feelings than my own. It's another point of contention between me and the few insiders who know me best (I don't take care of myself if someone else needs me, which is stupid and harmful). My point is: I'm not in suicidal danger. I'm just not taking sufficient care of myself to avoid the hit right now.

The Bloggess posts often about depression, how it lies and how hard it is to live with repeated bouts. I so utterly agree, but I don't have any answers about how to successfully beat the bastard down either. Knowing WHY he arrives doesn't always give me enough to defeat him. The past few months have been so utterly emotionally exhausting I haven't been able to refill my well, which left me open to that sneaky bastard. And so I force myself to get out of bed and drive to work and hope I can stop any pressing tears (yeah, Scandahoovians don't cry without red, splotchy faces and puffy eyes) and bury myself in work for the day. Only today is a no-meeting-not-much-to-do day and the conversation I had last night was intense enough that I can't push it aside until I'm home. Today, I'm trying to STOP thinking about all the evil lying shit depression says in my head and concentrate on rediscovering what makes me feel valuable, worthy, fulfilled, passionate and happy.

My friend Superbetsy sent me this about depression today: The bloggess calls depression a lying bastard. When it tries to take me down, I lie right back to it. I put on a shit ton of makeup and sing loudly and look at pictures of puppies. If it can tell us falsehoods, we can do the same. BECAUSE IM A GREAT SINGER, DAMMIT!

This post isn't any sort of request for validation, compliments, or anything of the sort. I've written about this many times before privately and it's done nothing: maybe taking the risk of putting it out here will make some difference in my heart. If not, at least any reader also battling that bastard will know they're not alone in the fight.

Sunday, December 09, 2012

In a surreal afternoon event, I've had a quote a friend said to me two years ago at Renaissance Festival running maddeningly hilarious circles through my head.

A group of us took the day off one particularly pleasing afternoon to wander like idiots and drink ourselves silly. Indeed, mission accomplished for Husband and the other friends involved. I opted to drive because I'm a compassionate goddess of fun a fucking lightweight who gets horrifically debilitating hangovers. Therefore, I was titled Wrangler of Drunks for the day.

And it was fabulously entertaining...I'm not actually being snarky. Husband and two friends, H and B (both former security ociffers) ran stumbled around the festival, harassing participants/entertainers/dogs/random trees and having a grand time. I followed at a safe distance (so I wouldn't trip one of them for entertainment purposes by accident.

Ultimately, we connected with another former security dude...FUCK this gets confusing without names. Let's call him Z (whom we all adore in all his zombie-loving, pink bathrobe wearing, chocolate fountain ruining glory) with whom H had previously tangled. Apparently said tangling was...quite satisfactory.

She insisted that I NEED to ride that ride. It became a thing between the four of us, and for some reason all day today my brainpan has had "seriously Jess, you should ride that ride" bouncing around.

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

﻿So I'm quite sick of the stupid "if you love her, buy her THESE diamonds" holiday commercials, and unfortunately they'll just keep getting MORE annoying until 1) the apocalypse on 12/21 kills the power or 2) Valentine's Day is blessedly behind us. So, let's discuss REAL romance, shall we? Because in my world every kiss does NOT begin with Kay (ok, technically the letter K does begin the word Kiss, but that's like spelling doughnut "donut" for marketing purposes, which irks me anyway), and fuck you De Beers.

A particularly cynical friend of mine thinks romance in concept is deception designed to get a partner into bed/relationship/marriage and is ultimately a big fucking lie because it's unsustainable.I find that attitude...depressing as hell, and so I checked with other friends (male and female, touchy-feely and not) about romance in relationships and as a seduction tool.

Flowers: Husband, CF, and a few other males I asked are unanimously against buying/picking/giving flowers to a woman. And I'm sorry boys, but your reasons are FUCKING STUPID. Worded in various ways, the basic cop-out is "why would I want to buy you/her/anyone flowers as a token of my affection when flowers die? Isn't that a temporary and not-nice symbol?"

Nice try, but fail. Flowers are pretty, they smell nice, they brighten a room/day/life for a time, and know what? They MAKE RECIPIENTS SMILE. Their temporary nature, if you must be philosophical about it, is a reminder not to take things for granted because everything is temporary.

The fact is, not giving your partner flowers because YOU don't like them is a selfish reason. If SHE doesn't like flowers you're in the clear. If flowers make her day it's romantic to give them: it shows you're thinking about HER feelings.

Candlelight: CF doesn't like candlelight because he thinks it's part of an ulterior-motive: creating a seduction. Well...um...FUCKING DUH. I'm sorry, when did being seduced become a bad thing?

Soft lighting is the equivelent of make-up, lingerie, high heels, a dress, shaving, suit-and-tie, perfume/cologne or any other "dressing up" mask people wear to make themselves look appealing to their partner. Of COURSE you want your partner to find you sexy, and low lights are an easy way to 1) set a mood of quiet attentiveness and 2) instantly airbrush some of the flaws about which a person may be self conscious (stretch marks come to mind: they're fucking ANNOYINGLY obvious in harsh light). Do you notice the flaws? Maybe not, and finding your partner attractive with all his/her flaws is part of what makes you awesome. But it's not about whether YOU notice them: it's about whether HE/SHE feels self-conscious about them. Is a partner who feels attractive not a better date than one who is distracted by self-doubt? Yeah. Thought so.

Compliments/Cards/Mushy Talk: Seriously, this isn't romance, people. This is part of loving someone. If you aren't randomly complementing your partner after X years, why the fuck NOT? If you like something about him/her, TELL THEM. Your partner isn't a mind reader, and everyone likes to be told in no uncertain terms that they're appreciated, loved, liked, admired, that their boobs look awesome that day.

Jewelry: I admit I'm not a very girly girl when it comes to traditional presents. It irks me that jewelry commericals insist so strongly that men ONLY love their women if they buy fancy-pants cold stones. However, if that's what gets you all mushy and gooey about your partner I say go for it.

It's not that difficult: choose the gifts that your PARTNER will love. For example, for our anniversary this year I got my husband a pistol. Because he's an avid gun enthusiast and his plans of saving for it were dashed in the accident that stole a few months of his time. It meant something to him, even though I don't necessarily find a gun a romantic gift. *shrug* If you want to romance ME with gifts, buy me books. Get me a MN Wild jersey (my most EXCELLENT anniversary gift from Husband last year) or tickets. Clean my house so I can write. Make me dinner. BUY ME FUCKING FLOWERS*. Ha. Effort, people. EFFORT: If "Romance" is effort put in to woo your partner and left at the wayside after a few years/marriage/kids/etc then maybe it was a deception. In that case, I guess I can agree with CF's assessment, but it makes me sad. But mostly I think it's laziness, not intentional jackassery that locks romance in a closet.

I've been guilty of romantic lazypantsness. It sucks: resentment and unappreciated invisibility are sneaky bastards who weasel their way between people in relationship: they must be executed. No matter how long a couple has been together, a little effort to set a scene, to purposefully seduce, to ROMANCE their partner is always an appreciated and cherished gesture. Ultimately, romance is never a waste if it makes you both feel appreciated, wanted, and valued, right? The trappings are utterly subjective, but they're still an important part of a loving and long-term relationship.

*in the interest of not making my husband look like a dick, he HAS given flowers on multiple occasions after we had that exact discussion about the worth of floral gifts early on in our relationship. Win.

UPDATE: I've been told Husband DID buy flowers before the conversation. However, I maintain we did HAVE that conversation at some point. Since I don't recall whether it was before or post-flowers, I concede the point.

Enough mush. On to the most important point of this post:

Let's discuss the total bowl of awesome it would be to give me Gerard Butler (preferably naked but not required) for any occasion, shall we?

Monday, November 19, 2012

If you're wondering, I'm TOTALLY using that title for my as-yet-ill-conceived memoir. That's right: "climb into the handbasket" was one of the many fucked-up ways people found this blog. Here are a few others:

"i'm in love with my same sex therapist" - I'm fairly certain I've never blogged about this. Should I ever I'll be sure to tag it something obnoxious.

"mini donut bus" - snicker

"pithy porno for men" - I suppose this is because I SPECIFICALLY add tags that indicate this is NOT porn and these aren't the looked-for penises, and that amuses the fuck out of me.

"ripping each other's faces off" - well, that's violent. And gross.

"shit my pants as an adult" - yeah...I just have nothing for this one at all.

In other news, so far today I've managed the following nonsense:

offered to buy a former co-worker and his new bride porn. Doesn't everyone want a subscription to Penthouse as a wedding gift??

was called an Orca* which did fabulous things to my brain, considering I've gained four pounds back after our annual Girls Weekend Group cookie exchange (HOMEMADE FUDGE, WHY CAN'T I QUIT YOU?)

been recruited by the travel-hell job that laid me off last November by a former co-worker (not the one I offered to get porn: that would be inappropriate!) who has been rehired and seems to really want that employee referral bonus. I find the prospect...unlikely.

spent far too much time on Twitter and Amazon after discovering many of my followers/followed twitter peeps offer freebies. Indeed, the Kindle app on my iphone is STEAMING with the stuff I've downloaded...and I now know some wonderfully sick writers to add to the Dirty Book Club.

*to clarify, a discussion in regards to swimming in the ocean led to that, which to be fair WAS intended as a compliment. One of the many nicknames for an Orca is "sea wolf" and the person in question SAYS it was meant thusly. I, however, pointed out next time such a text should be read out loud to a female before sending it to a girl, and that another nickname for Orcas is "KILLER DEMON."

To be fair, Killer Demon may be more applicable than either a whale OR a sea wolf.

Thursday, November 15, 2012

It's nearly Thanksgiving and I've been considering family, things for which I'm thankful, and all that sentimental bullshit.

And I'm writing NONE of it here, because I'm also busy as hell right now at home. I'll try to put a real post up over the weekend. In the meantime, something I posted originally a couple years ago about one of my favorite Thanksgiving memories.

Miss you, Grandpa.

I come from a large extended family: my mom's the oldest of eight, dad's the oldest of seven. Holidays at my grandma Kit's house (mom's side) are crazy: cousins, animals, aunts and uncles all running haywire. Stories are told and retold, children are in and out of the house all day followed by the dogs, cats are hiding in terror, and horses are hitched up for rounds of sleigh rides. It's all loud insanity and it's wonderful. When I was about five my grandparents lived on a large farm in northern Minnesota, outside of Cloquet. It was more than a hobby farm, less than a farm-for-a-living spread. After all, they had seven kids still at home (four of them teenage boys) to feed so anything they could supply from the farm was much more cost effective for a second grade teacher and a heavy equipment driver for the county. In addition to the herd of horses, cats and dogs for fun, I remember cows, chickens, goats, sheep, guinea hens, and turkeys. There were probably other random animals from time to time...I know one of my aunts had a pet raccoon for a while. One turkey in particular took an instant disliking to my small five-year-old form. He decided I was a blonde devil and for months I couldn't walk near the barn without him attacking. In case you didn't know, 25lb turkeys fully live and loaded have VERY STRONG wings: he'd extend them out to each side and run at me, screeching and beating his wings at me until I was cornered against the barn. I loathed that stupid bird. My aunt Elyse, only seven years older than me, had to beat him away from me with a big stick. That bastard gave me nightmares every time I stayed at Grandmas for the entire summer. Thanksgiving came and we were all sitting around the large kitchen table. It was a cacaphony of children and adults all talking at once, passing food, slipping treats to the dogs under the table, and laughing. I, being the oldest (and therefore exalted) grandchild, sat next to my Grandpa, a big, gruff man who was really a big softie with the grandkids. He watched me take a big bite of turkey and waited until I swallowed. Then he told me that was the big nasty tom from the barn. To this day I think he was telling me just to see how I'd react, being a girl mostly sheltered from the more unpleasant farm duties (we never went there on butchering day after the chicken incident). I cheered and asked for more.

Tuesday, November 06, 2012

That's a lie. I could probably entertain someone with some random stream-of-consciousness-crap that bounces around like a superball on speed in my cranium. However, I am lazy. And it's election day (NO MORE Romney supporter calls to my house: yay!!). And therefore I give you the posts I've seen recently that made me cry, either through excessive laughter or well written sentiment.

(Please note, the mental image I get when I write "sentiment" is Johnny Depp as Willie Wonka...remember how he looked like he swallowed a bigass frog every time he tried to say "parents"? Yeah. That's the face I make...also, I just got COMPLETELY distracted looking at pics of Johnny Depp on the interwebz.)

Saturday, November 03, 2012

My grossly neglected dogs (who have punished me for recent lack-of-attention by killing birds, eating bad Halloween candy and vomiting aluminum wrappers all over the floor under the table, and other manifestations of evil) had a vet appointment today. Both survived their respective tortures: Chewy is prone to ear infections: he has one (and it's pretty gross) so they shaved the hair in his ears, cleaned the infected one thoroughly (takes 2 people, dude) and clipped his nails for me.

Thor needed his nails clipped: he's a goddamn drama queen and SCREAMS when the techs clip him. Not the normal Shepherd whining: full on "OHMYGODTHEY'RERIPPINGMYSKINOFF!!" screaming and howling. Sigh. For fucking TOENAILS. Diva.

I felt guilty, therefore after becoming a narcotics dealer at Walgreens I picked up McNuggets for them. I was rewarded with drool down the back of my neck. Assholes.

Anyway...today is spoda be cleaning day, right? Because having been gone for two months my office and the corners of my house are...dusty. I have fabulous aunts who came to clean last weekend, but this place needs more than a quick once-over...so today was going to be cleaning extravaganza.

Because I'm supposed to be writing for NaNoWriMo...and I'm a MASTER (Mistress?) procrastinator. Seriously. If this was college I'd wait until 11/29 and try desperately to cram 50,000 words between 10pm and midnight. Hey, it worked for my Greek and Roman history classes...Except when I argued that Achilles was a bitchy whining teenager who basically took his friends and pouted on the beach because Agamemnon TOOK HIS TOY away.

Agamemnon: dude, your sex slave is hotter than mine and I'm an asshole, so I'm taking her.
Achilles: Fine, dick. I'm taking my Myrmidons and going home. Fuck you and the ship you sailed in on, and good luck taking down Troy without me.

Note Achilles didn't really care about the GIRL (although Hollywood desperately tried to make it look that way in Troy, which was horrid and should never be watched by anyone unless it's ONLY to see Brad Pitt and Bruce Banner (who's real name escapes me) nearly naked). He cared that Agamemnon took the equivalent of a blond Tonka truck away before he was done.

Yup, MASTER PROCRASTINATOR over here. I got a C on that paper...because my professor was offended that I called Achilles on his crappy behavior. I'm not sorry.

In case you're wondering, the cat hair in the vet's office has me sneezing like a goddamn faucet today (yay for unsexy snotface) and yet I STILL managed to: become a drug dealer (only to my husband, who is legally on prescribed narcotics, police-type readers. I swear: I have the prescription), torture the dogs, clean the upstairs bathroom, tell my mom Happy Birthday, take out the garbage AND make homemade apple crisp.
All of this while my fucking pants keep falling down. Sigh. Inappropriate, but husband finds it amusing.

Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Husband was released from prison the hospital yesterday: 2 months to the date since the drunk asshole in a borrowed SUV with SHITTY INSURANCE plowed into the motorcycle...yeah, I'm not bitter at all. But he's home, he's allowed to start working with crutches, and he managed it nearly three weeks earlier than we'd originally thought.

AND he's home for our 9th anniversary, which is (of course) Halloween.

My sister EVER so kindly bought him a hideous lovely brass bell, the kind you see on a dry cleaner's counter. To be helpful, I'm sure. So he can get my attention (intubation is HELL on vocal cords...he's been significantly lower-volumed since the accident) if I'm upstairs and he's in the living room.

Because she hates me. And wants revenge for my snarky comments about my nephew's night-owl tendencies being karma for HER having days and nights mixed up as a baby. I was four...I remember. "But she's helpful," you may say... well...I would agree except for the evil glee in her eye. I suppose that could be the glassy Han-won't-let-me-sleep effect, but I doubt it. Evil glee all the way.

Unfortunately, the bell was lost.

MORE unfortunately...that fucking thing is lost SOMEWHERE IN MY TRUCK.

Thursday, October 25, 2012

But instead, I'm pirating from myself. So I have this really good friend who is mostly bored to death with what most people do for fun (strip clubs, TV, movies, the bar...) and likes to discuss deep shit. I mean Deep Shit: he persistently asks me hard questions. Not rocket-science or calculus or how to bake a Duff cake successfully...oh no. Not one query has been a random bit of trivia or fact I can just go look up...that'd be far too easy.

I mean hard like "what exactly does it mean to LOVE someone (for example, does Love include NEEDING someone, or do we get those mixed up)" and other sorts of philosophical and ethical issues that occasionally exhaust me. However, they've been fabulous distractions while Husband's been in the hospital, because honestly TV can only get a girl so far when she's lonely and bored at home late at night. Plus, late night TV fucking sucks donkey parts. Bo-Ring.

So...recently he posed the following: if I knew I was going to die "soon" what would I do and why? It's SORT of a bucket-list question, and sort of not...I mean, soon could be tomorrow or a month from now or a year from now, right? I suspect he was looking for how I prioritized them, but that's a different post.

I would write, because it's a need I can't ignore (without harm to my brainpan).

I'd read, because there's still so much I want to learn.

I'd go back to Ireland. It's the only place I've ever been that truly felt like home the MOMENT I stepped off the ferry. I would take the people I love there so I could (selfishly) have everyone I love in the place I feel most whole.

I would spend as much time touching the people I love as possible, because I'm not great at verbalizing but I AM good at cuddling and I want to be in their presence. While that could include sex it doesn't need to: sex is significantly better if there's love because of the intimacy that comes from love. So I wouldn't waste time fucking everything that moves, but sex as a physical expression of the love I feel for my beloved would be neat.

I would swim in the ocean. Any ocean. I can spend entire vacations just sitting on the beach, listening: it both stirs and calms me. (Also, thank you Spellcheck for catching that I wrote "clams" instead of "calms" because seriously...that could've been awkward.)

I would cuddle with my dogs and ride horses more. I don't give the boys nearly enough of my time, love or attention, and they deserve it.

I would dance. I'm not a superstar bellydancer, and I loathe performing...I bellydance because it makes me feel powerfully female. That's rare and precious.

Of course, thinking about all of this makes me wonder: if I knew when Death will knock on my door, would I tell anyone how much time I had left? Would you?

Thursday, October 18, 2012

I've spent the past two months in an all-encompassing fog of anxiety, depression, worry, and exhaustion. That's not any sort of plea for sympathy...it's my excuse for crappy and intermittent posting. I simply have very little to write about outside of dealing with the accident and aftermath, and instead of inflicting that upon ANYONE in cyberspace, I've avoided my blog (except in the case of obnoxious dog posts, which are occasionally necessary in my world).

Yup. I'm an avoider. Nope, I'm pretty sure "avoider" isn't a word.

Indeed, spellcheck agrees.

It took me six weeks to gather enough nerve to sit in front of my keyboard and just let my fingers go. I'm not sure if that makes sense...

I learned in my high school creative writing class to turn OFF my critical mind and let whatever lurks behind the wall to bypass my editor and just come out on paper. If you're a writer at heart and haven't read Natalie Goldberg's Writing Down the Bones or Wild Mind it's really time you do. (Thank you, Mr. Benson, for those lessons.) The key is to keep your hand moving and just write down whatever comes out. Keeping you hand moving (pen to paper or fingers to keyboard) without re-reading purges what hides in your soul.

Last week I finally sat down in front of a blank word document, closed my eyes, and typed. Thirty minutes and six pages later I discovered I was crying uncontrollably, but I didn't stop writing.

I'm still not ready to put anything down in an actual journal (after all, anything typed can be deleted, or even printed and burned if necessary), but at least I'm writing again. And I'm slowly opening that box-o-mess I've kept locked up tight in my chest since August.

Which brings me to the impending November writing exercise: National Novel Writing Month. I've never successfully completed the challenge. I have two weeks to get my characters and plot ready: I don't know if I'll have time to finish 50,000 words in 30 days this year with Husband coming home from the rehab unit sometime soon, but I'm sure as hell going to try.

I know, I know. Do, or do not. There is no try.

I'm not Yoda, people. And while I haven't gotten nearly enough lately, I DO enjoy sleeping.

Also, it has come to my attention that my current contract position is ending in 2.5 months. Not that I expect to write and sell a book in that time and replace my job...but it IS fairly motivating. Plus...what the hell else am I going to do while Hubby games/naps all afternoon when he gets home? Work?

Monday, October 08, 2012

The weekend was a flurry of hospital time, family time (parents are heading back to California today, because they're assholes who live where it's warm), and errands. I suck at blogging lately, it's true.

I spent quite a bit of time surfing facebook in the dark because Husband was napping and I couldn't turn the goddamn light on to read. I found this and was amused:

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I see you looking with your judgy mcjudgerton pants on.

﻿﻿In other random news:

Today is his birthday: husband is spoiled rotten and getting an iPad to entertain him for his last month in the hospital (he's aware of this gift already). I still have to do SOMETHING though, right? So his birthday card is AWESOME. And not just because it has Indiana Jones on the front page...because it plays the goddamn Indiana Jones THEME. Mwahahaha.

My new FABULOUSLY cute nephew, Harrison, who is a whopping 14 days old today, peed in his own face recently. Hey, it takes time to work out the kinks in a brand-spankin-new body, right? I mean, he hasn't even discovered his own fingers yet (as evidenced by his inability to stop from smacking himself in the face while flailing). That's right people, the boy will be "Han" to me from now on. Which is probably less psychologically damaging to his future 16 year-old self than "Sprinkle" don't you think?

Thursday, September 27, 2012

"We love what we love. Reason does not enter into it... Anyone can love 'because.' That's as easy as putting a penny in your pocket. But to love something 'despite.' To know the flaws and love them too. That is rare and pure and perfect." -Patrick Rothfuss, The Wise Man's Fear

You should probably ignore this post. To be honest, I'm not certain I'm going to publish this post.

I don't recall which classic story ended in the perpetrator getting walled into a room forever. I thought it was The Count of Monte Cristo, but I'm likely incorrect. I just have a vivid mental image of him screaming through the tiny remaining open space as the final brick slides into place.

That's where I am right now. Only I'm bricking myself into my own prison.

Amidst all the horrific stress and terror of the past month, I've been desperately pushing down/aside/away other things that have cracked my foundations and left me on precarious footing. I locked it all away for a time, ignoring everything for weeks under the wave of fear and worry associated with the accident. Now that Husband is doing significantly better and I no longer wonder if he'll live, I'm getting to the point that if I DON'T let something out that last brick will slide into place. And I'll be trapped in self-imposed isolation.

Ultimately, the main drama will be resolved somehow or another, and it doesn't really matter what it was (because it will eventually be dealt with). What matters for this post is this: I'm a person with many acquaintances and very few real friends (by friends I don't mean people who consider me their friend: I mean people I'm willing to trust and lean on when I need them).

I don't trust easily or well, and I don't let many past those outer periphery "I know you and generally like you some" edges. When I discover someone isn't actually trustworthy in my moral code, fair or not, I purposefully withdraw from everyone. I bury everything deep under a pasted-on a positive attitude and keep going on the outside.

On the inside I'm slapped by shock, followed by incendiary overwhelming anger, followed by humiliation and despair...who hold red-hot pokers in their evil little hands and beat me as long as I let them. Those devious bastards insert and foster dark thoughts and invite anger back to the party, particularly when I'm alone at 3am.

And now I'm sorely tempted not to trust anyone again. I'm caught between "you never should've anyway" and "if you don't open up now and again you'll be alone."

I'm aware of the over-dramatic nature of my anxiety, pain and depression. I'm even aware that my moral code is harsher than most and likely an unfair standard, particularly in certain situations. I find this to be somewhat of a failing in my character, that opening up isn't often worth the risk to my heart. It's a part of me that's been under construction for quite some time as I try to keep myself from alienating people in general and be more...positive...about humans.

Husband keeps telling me how proud he is of me for dealing with everything that's going on and keeping it together, but all of that is an utter sham. I'm not and don't deserve any sort of praise here. I'm a brick or two away from being completely walled-in and emotionally frozen. I'm not suicidal. I'm just broken. I don't know what to do about it.

I put the quote about love at the top of this post to remind myself what I want to work toward: loving despite and including flaws. Even when I'm talking about my own.

Tuesday, September 25, 2012

My time in the hospital inappropriately jump-started a new diet plan (hey, I lost 12 pounds in that first two weeks and it's stayed off...might as well get SOMETHING good out of this shit!). I find the following Groupon really annoying, now that I'm making a conscious effort to eat better and do some sort of sweating activity.

﻿﻿

Groupon hates my weight loss!

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Screw you Groupon, I'm not eating your damn cake and I'm pretty sick of the Zumba coupons. So there. Poor marketing! Bring back the Conceal and Carry discount. Or martial arts. Or even aerial yoga, which I'm DYING to try when I've lost enough weight that I won't bring the ceiling down...and it arrives in MN (generally we're years behind the coasts in any trend) if you MUST give me something I'd classify as girly.

In the meantime, I've been wasting time today on www.etsy.com today, because buying from small artisans is like buying from local businesses: I've found it's often far better. Not always, but often.

I found THIS FABULOUSNESS today, and am planning to scare the bejesus out of the neighborhood kids with my lawn as soon as possible. Go forth, zombie lovers, and make YOUR lawn disturbing. Just in time for Halloween!

Of course, that brought me to other Halloween-type etsy crafts, which brought me to the Poe/Raven Print that I utterly covet for my office. It's finally getting chilly and dark in the evenings, and it smells like dying leaves and impending winter. Time for my annual Lovecraft and Poe reading marathon...modern horror just can't compete.

PS: Spellchecker doesn't recognize "bejesus" or "girly" (never mind Groupon or etsy, which are made up words anyway). I'm amused.

UPDATED: Thanks to The Bloggess I also now MUST have the Weeping Angel from Amazon. Except I'll have to buy two. And make them face each other.

Friday, September 21, 2012

Have I mentioned I'm not a terribly patient person? Yeah. I'm not. I have no intention of turning this blog into a medical-world-recovery diary, but it's likely to creep in here and there...

The way people react to a crisis is fascinating, and if I wasn't in the midst of one I'd likely be really interested in dissecting all the weird little peccadillo's that surface. Someday later I may do exactly that, because it's ASTOUNDING what sort of idiot dramas, petty fights, intentional exaggerations for attention, and territorial snarkiness all pop up when someone with a lot of acquaintances is hurt. Luckily, 99% of people mean well, and I definitely remember that. :)

Instead, I'm saying "fuck off" to being patient with all the drama and stress and writing about shit that's distracted me this week.

I've determined that all family/loved ones/friends seating in a hospital are somehow designed to get you to move on after approximately 23 minutes.

23 minutes is the average amount of time it takes my ass to fall asleep in the incredibly uncomfortable chair in Husband's room. Yes, I do mean an average...some days when he's napping I time it. Because I'm mental that way.

I'm quite sick of pudding.

Yesterday it occurred to me that in the past three weeks there has been a near-constant stream of non-husband-men (and a few women) in my house at odd times of the day. I wonder what my neighbors think.

Particularly the neighbor across the driveway from us, who believes he's an ex-CIA agent and spies on the entire neighborhood with scopes and night-vision-goggles. I've mentioned him before: he's the peeping dude.

In finding the old peeping post I looked at a bunch of really stupid post titles and have come to the following conclusions:

I liked the word "abounds" WAY TOO MUCH

I'm significantly better at coming up with titles now.

My blog was totally inane for a long time (honestly, it still is, but at least I'm occasionally better at pointing out the funny/stupid/inane crap now).

I did have a couple good ideas in there, like Monster Mondays and stuff...you know, themes and shit (instead of the chaotic random word-flailing I'm doing now). Seriously considering starting some of them again.

Which requires actual thoughtful writing.

Which I think I'm ready to start doing again (without having a meltdown, I mean).

Monday, September 17, 2012

Jesus Hannibal Christ. (Hey, the "H" has to stand for something, right?) The past two weeks have been a sleep-deprived, stress-induced blur...all of the sudden summer is dead and we've moved into MY FAVORITE SEASON.

Conveniently, this happened just when Husband is awake, out of the ICU, on the (cranky) mend, and able to coordinate his visitor schedule so he has more company. WOOHOO! While I miss him TERRIBLY when I'm not there, this does allow me at least time to go for a walk to smell the leaves change. Which allows Chewy to shuffle through dried leaves...which results in crushed leaves in his coat, on my floor, etc etc.

Speaking of Chewy, last night I left the door open to the guest room, because I'm a nice dog-mom and I know he prefers to sleep on the guest bed than on the floor. I was rewarded with dog puke on the comforter. Sigh. Apparently my delay last night providing dinner was a mistake, but still: really dude?

One of Husband's nurses told me this weekend that people bring their dogs in to visit all the time.

Imagine for a moment a 150lb white furball SKATING ACROSS THE SLIPPERY HOSPITAL FLOORS.

Now add the long, thick ropes of drool hanging out of both sides of his mouth. I mean long enough to leave a trail behind him.

Now add a fluffy tail curled up over his back and wagging madly as he tries to drag me through the lobby.

I can just see the poor security guard trying to wipe slime off his pants while Chewy bowls him over in his insistent I-will-sit-on-your-feet-and-lean-so-you-pet-me-NOW sorta way.

Does this sounds like a good idea in a very small room with an IV stand just WAITING to be knocked over?

Wednesday, September 12, 2012

We've always had a really good relationship with our next door neighbors. This is an important thing when your home is the end unit in a townhome complex and you have two excessively large dogs. In all the years we've lived here we had one incident, when Thor was a large and boisterous 8 month old puppy and accidentally stepped on the toy Pomeranian while they were playing in the back yard. He broke her leg. We paid the vet bills, and he's been terribly careful around small animals ever since. We were remarkably lucky that Annie never blamed us or the dog: called it an accident and we all got along great for years.

Last spring, Annie accepted a job in San Diego, I think, and moved out. We now have renters next door: a young Hispanic couple (I point this out because I'm not certain how much English they speak, which will come into play in a minute) and their children. The kids are terrified of the boys (who are DYING to go over and visit and play), so I keep the dogs well leashed when we go outside now.

Last night, I didn't have a good enough grip. The parents were outside with two songbirds in a cage: the smallish green kind that are about the size of my hand. I'm not sure what they are, but they're not tiny and they're not full parrot sized or anything.

One got out of the cage.

Thor jerked himself out of my grip. Chewy barked like a damn madman and charged the poor woman sitting on the grass (to snuggle, but she didn't know that).

Chaos ensued.

I should explain here that Thor DESPERATELY loves chasing flies in our house, and tries over and over in futile jaw-snapping extravaganzas to eat them.

Yeah.

As it turns out, small green songbirds are REALLY FUCKING SLOW.

He caught it. He didn't eat it: just caught it, but that was enough. So now I have a dead bird, crying children, and parents who don't speak good enough English for me to say I'm sorry clearly enough. I started balling (please could I have any MORE reason to feel bad right now? How about NO MORE) and offered to get them another bird when they're ready, and reiterated again that Thor loves kids and would never hurt a person. Sigh. Of course I don't speak Spanish, and can't even remember if "lo ciento" is "I'm sorry" or if I just said something rude.

I realize in a few days it'll be mildly funny, the sight of him standing there in the yard with green bird hanging out of his mouth, TOTALLY CONFUSED. I think he didn't expect to catch it, and he thought he'd done well, so getting in trouble for it was clearly a big shocker for him. I'm just waiting for the association or the cops to come tell me he's a dangerous dog (yes, I have anxiety and paranoia).

They don't behave this way when Husband is home. Then again, neither do I.

Monday, September 10, 2012

Husband is entering day 12 in the intensive care unit, and I'm futzing around at work this morning until my 1pm conference call is finished so I can go work from his room.

A hospital is a really strange alternate universe where time moves strangely and you're in a weird microcosm of "we're all worried together." I celebrated when a family whose son FINALLY moved to the rehab center after 27 days in the ICU. I cried when the parents of the French foreign exchange student hit by a car the same day Husband was in his accident found out she didn't make it. I commiserated with another wife of a motorcycle accident victim, when she said bikes are out of their family for good (and privately sighed, knowing the stubborn nature of my husband will likely overrule any attempt I make at banning motorcycles).

The ICU is an excessively depressing place and I can't sit in the waiting room anymore, but I've found amusement in a few things during this stint in the hospital.

Yesterday I watched Lifetime (television for women, duh) for a couple of hours. I'd finished my book and didn't want to sit there in the non-silence of beeping machines and nurses/PCAs/docs/etc coming in and out to poke and prod my unconscious husband. So I figured if he's dreaming I'd give him the most fucked up dreams possible by watching his most hated channel. Because I'm evil. I was told if he wakes up with a sudden desire to learn to knit, I'm in big trouble.

Nurses are remarkably fascinated and cheered up by the most disgusting things. I overhear a lot of it sitting quietly in the chair by Husband's bed.

Being around nurses for the past 12 days has ME cheering about gross things. Sigh. This morning I told Chewy he was SUCH A GOOD BOY...for pooping.

I got the evil eye, and I mean SERIOUS evil eye, from an older man in the waiting room on Friday. NO IDEA what the hell I'd done to get the death-stare, until he walked past me later with (presumably) family members. The woman walking 3 steps behind him was completely swathed head-to-toe in veils, including one across her face so only her eyes showed, and they were cast down.

Being perverse and irritated, I stared right back when we passed in the hall and he had the I-just-ate-a-lemon face directed at me for the second time that day. Apparently my jeans and t-shirt didn't meet his approval. Petty? Oh probably. But it amused the hell out of me to not back down the way he expected I would.

The day nurse spilled an entire tray of breakfast on me last week (this would've been the day before husband was put back on the ventilator and was trying to eat real food, like pudding. And cream-of-chicken soup. Ish). It's sort of gratifying to know I'm not the totally ungraceful person in the room once in a while.

ICU psychosis is a real thing dude. Real thing. That, or there are some SERIOUSLY interesting side effects to the drugs. I'm keeping a list of the fucked-up stuff I overhear in there, particularly when the walls are moving or the ceiling is falling...

Sunday, September 02, 2012

I'll likely be sporadic about blogging the next few weeks. Last week my husband was hit by a truck while on his motorcycle.

We are remarkably lucky that he's alive with an intact head, back and spine, but it's going to a long road to recovery. And by "long" I mean a fabulous Christmas present will be him walking around out of bed. Today (whatever day of the week that is...I honestly don't know) I'm just waiting for him to get good enough to move from the ICU to a regular room.

Hug your loved ones. Seriously. You don't want to celebrate the things like "woohoo his eyes opened" or "he's off the ventilator"...believe me. Although I've been enthusiastically celebrating each step forward since I saw my broken husband in the ER. That's an image I never want to relive. Luckily, all the kings men can put him together again.

And for fuck's sake, use a sober cab instead of taking out motorcyclists.

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

This is not a funny post, and honestly, it shouldn't be. I posted a bit of this on facebook the other day, but a momentary rant made me really start thinking about what's going on in today's political climate. This will be my only post on politics in this season (unless, of course, I "misspoke" in which case a PR person will shrug and comment somewhere on my blog that I didn't mean what I said. Even though I do, indeed, mean it).

Know what happens when you give away your rights over and over to government entities for "protection"? YOU GIVE UP YOUR RIGHTS. Know why we have the first and second amendments? Because when the US was a colony we didn't have the right to protest or stand up for ourselves. That's what the founding fathers intended with the Bill of Rights, with the Constitution, and with the freedoms we TOOK for ourselves in this country.

I resent that the political party originally valuing personal responsibility, financial independence, and small government influence/interference has become a Christian Coalition front-man pushing EXACTLY THE OPPOSITE sorts of controls on US citizens. Guess what? Religion has no place in government, and it BURNS me that the same party that bitched and moaned about a Catholic taking office (Kennedy, hello) is the SAME party pushing for more and more religion-driven-morality laws in the current government. Yes, Republican uber-conservative-religious-fanatics, I'm talking to YOU.

I resent that the political party originally valuing civic duty, taking care of the less fortunate, and ensuring the welfare of many over the wealth of the few has become a fucking nanny party determined to erode common sense and ANY sense of responsibility in favor of taking away my personal rights, particularly the right I have to protect myself with a gun, if necessary. That's right, uber-liberal-do-gooder-busybodies: I'm talking to YOU.

What the hell happened to all the MODERATES? You know, the ones who have common sense and can agree with some basic principles on both sides?

Seriously, what happens when we give up our rights? We lose them, and it takes a goddamn revolution to get them back. I'm not interested in a revolution: in a war people suffer on all sides. I'm interested in the government pulling their heads out of their ASSES and making some sense, because right now the Right is alienating any female citizen who has ever been assaulted, victimized, harassed, or is terrified of someone else forcing her to make health decisions without her consent. The Left is alienating honorable men and women who feel strongly in their right and ability to protect their own lives and loved ones, and who understand that NO GOVERNMENT SHOULD EVER be in a position of absolute power over its citizens. Know why?

Absolute power corrupts. Absolutely. (Thanks, Spiderman!)

See what I mean? Democrats and Republicans are EXACTLY THE SAME. They both want to take all the personal control of our lives, (Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness, anyone??) our forefathers and -mothers fought and died to take back from a colonizing empire that held us hostage.

Ever since 9/11 we've been giving away our freedoms and our rights in the name of "safety" and "protecting life."

But freedom isn't safe: it never has been.

You want to give up your rights, fine. I think you're fucking stupid, but it's YOUR choice to do so. However, you don't get to give up mine for me in the name of "keeping me safe" or "for my own good" or because you want to control my body and my choices.

Government busybodies don't belong in my bedroom, in my gun cabinet, in my phone/email/facebook/twitter/etc, in my diary, in my bank accounts, my medical records and decisions, or in my marriage.

I value my freedom. I respect the men and women who, over CENTURIES, have given their lives for that freedom. I would like to see this election result in protecting our hard-won rights and freedoms, not either fanatical agenda.

Friday, August 24, 2012

In case you were wondering, Thor wouldn't allow me to put the "Happy Fucking Birthday" hat on him. Apparently he has more pride than Chewy, who allowed it but only with a cranky face. ﻿This is not the same cranky face I get when it's time for nail clipping, ear cleaning, or bathing...but it's close.

The other night my fool furbabies were lying on opposite sides of the living room. Husband was gaming in his reclining chair with Chewy chilling under the footrest (so he couldn't close the chair and get up, of course) while I lazed about on the couch with Thor and caught up on Lost Girl (If you haven't seen this show yet, WATCH IT. It's funny and sexy...hello...main character is a Succubus...and all manner of awesomesauce).

I dont' know what the hell was in the air, but much like brothers my two dogs occasionally pull the "I'M NOT TOUCHING YOU" shit with each other. Only with teeth. Chewy, our mild-mannered stuffed-animal-serial-eviscerator started it.

Chewy leaves bodies on the floor.

And steals Thor's toys (in this case that used to be a turtle, but the shell is ripped open and he's mid-evisceration).

Usually Thor doesn't care (note his tongue sticking out).

However, when he DOES care he reminds us all that German Shepherds have...very scary teeth. I've never been able to catch a good pic of Thor's teeth, but if you've seen ANY cop show with K-9 officers, you know what I mean. His lips curl up and he growls deep in his chest.

And Chewy stares back at him from across the room, growling. Occasionally they get up and have a scuffle (which can move furniture, since they're 100 and 145lbs). It should be noted that CHEWY ALWAYS LOSES, yet he usually starts the trouble. Sigh. When I get home from work and Chewy has a new scab on his head I know they got into it (again) and Thor (again) held Chewy's head in his mouth like "Dude, I could bite your face off, so leave me alone. Go find a toy to rip apart. I'm fucking sleeping!"

On Wednesday they were both too lazy to actually do anything except stare and smart off at each other. So for two full hours Lost Girl had this really fucked up growling-dog undertone to the soundtrack. Later that night they cuddled on the guest bed together, so apparently the argument was over.

At least I haven't had to yell "THOR! STOP HUMPING YOUR BROTHER!" for a few weeks.

Wednesday, August 22, 2012

This is not one of those "I must justify why I'm not having kids" posts. Mostly, because I don't generally justify my choices to anyone but Husband (because he has to gets to live with me).

My impending nephew's estimated arrival is next month already. I make it sound like he's being delivered by a DHL truck or UPS guy...indeed, I'm sure my sister and her S.O. would be THRILLED* if a truck driver delivered their spawn.

I am excited as hell to be an aunt again, and am already spoiling him rotten with clothes and toys. Mwahahaha. We haven't even gotten to mountain dew and candy during babysitting..I mean...noisy toys for birthdays/Christmases/fun presents...I mean...NEVER MIND. Hopefully my sister won't read this anytime soon, or ignore it altogether (seriously, it's your best option).

I never had a burning desire to be a mother. Nearly all of my friends (of both sexes and all orientations) knew "someday" they'd have kids, I knew I wouldn't. No, really: in elementary school I wrote short stories about bears ripping the arms off of people and hated playing with dolls. I'm just not driven by the biological clock my friends talked about. Many of them said (often in a condescending or smug "I know more than you" tone, which made me want to punch them in the face...with love, of course) that "eventually you'll be DYING to have one and you'll change your mind," or even better: "but you'd be such a great mom!" Whatever THAT means.

Yeah. Hasn't happened yet. Not when there are so many Verruca Salts in public, providing excellent birth control tantrums that keep me happily swallowing my pill each night.

As it happens, both of us generally adore kids. Husband is one of those weird baby-whisperer types: they immediately fall asleep, content, when he picks them up.
It's fucking creepy, honestly. I think he gives off a secret baby-sleep-gas or something.

The annoying thing is, I always said I'd never get married, but then I met Husband and my devious (and deviant) heart did a 180... and I ended up married. Having changed my mind about the merits of a committed, married relationship I wanted to give myself wiggle room afterward in case my uterus pulled a similar 180 and demanded spawn (and peeing 7,000 times a day and puking for 3-6 months, both of which I already do thanks to a bladder the size of a peanut and allergies that hit hard from April -October).

After all, I try to be open minded and accepting of growth and change . I hear you snickering: I didn't say it always WORKED, just that I TRY to be open to change. Judging judger.

Anyway, I told myself we could discuss and change our minds until I turn 35**, but after that I'm done and the factory's CLOSED. There are multiple reasons for my arbitrary cut-off date, both logical and not, but this isn't really about the reasons...it's about the door closing. See, I hit that milestone this month, and I'll admit it came with a momentary twinge of concern. Will I regret not having babies someday when I'm an old fart and everyone else is showing off their grandchildren in the home? I don't feel inferior or lonely or less-than-a-woman for not having babies, so I don't think so.

I have an awesome husband and a life filled with love. I'm happy to leave motherhood to those who really ache to be moms. I wrote here a while back about the importance of aunts/uncles/adult role models, during a time when I was still considering whether I wanted to change my mind and have children. Ultimately, I'm still ok with my decisions. I'm still happy being an aunt the kids can come to when they're too embarrassed or scared to talk to their parents. And I still plan on spoiling OPK as often as possible.

*In case you didn't catch it, this is sarcasm
** Yes, I do understand that I could still have a perfectly healthy baby after 35. I have friends who did exactly that. I didn't say it wasn't an arbitrary number: it's MY number.

Monday, August 20, 2012

Well, neither did I, until the Mini Donut truck parked outside my booth at the MN Renaissance Festival on Saturday. Nope, not kidding:

(Pic courtesy of PJ, who posted it on facebook today, because the one I took with my non-renaissance-iphone didn't turn out). What this picture doesn't include is the costumed street performer who stood next to the truck for the entire day, 9am to 7pm, holding a sign that just read: REALLY?

Other fun shenanigans at the Renaissance Festival last weekend:

It rained Saturday night, so there were large puddles everywhere Sunday. Two street performers pretended to fish in a puddle outside my booth. Husband said "the only thing they're likely to catch in there is an STD."

DonutTruckGate and the new Mermaid Peep Show (which you have to pay extra for and is located in the Children's Realm of the festival, which I find amusing...although it may be touted as "See a Mermaid" instead of "Mermaid Peep Show." Semantics.) were the topic of every improv bit for pretty much every entertainment show at the festival.

Apparently said ridicule was so exhausting for management that by Sunday afternoon that someone asked the donut truck to leave. So he set up on the other side of the parking lot and continued to sell to patrons. Kudos to him! It wasn't HIS fault stupidity ran amok and likely screwed him out of many sales.

Participants park in a gravel pit. A deep gravel pit, filled with looming pyramids of sand and rocks, excavation equipment, puddles that can swallow your car, and six inches of mud. Oh did I mention there are NO LIGHTS down there, so when workers are done at 8:30 or so they're navigating in the pitch black to try to find their cars in a maze of filth and deadly obstacles? Yeah.

The shuttle driver who is SUPPOSED to drive workers down to their cars (for safety purposes...ie so they don't get hit by lost drivers trying to find their way OUT of the pit) decided to call it a night at about 7:30 on Saturday.

Another shuttle driver made pretty raunchy comments about bouncing boobs (yes, most all of us women out there wear corsets or bodices, and they DO push our cleavage up. It was the style of the Renaissance.) and actually stopped the bus and asked workers if he could WATCH THEM CHANGE. What the fuck, dude? He's been reported. I wasn't on the bus at the time. I likely would've popped him one and gotten fired, so it's probably good I wasn't there.

My feet are three sizes too big today, my legs hurt, and I'm bone tired. But selling mead is kick-ass fun and I have a great crew. All opening-day shenanigans aside, it was a fabulous weekend.

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Apparently the people who produce the dictionary are all on acid. Prepare for my English Major rant forthwith (disclaimer: I can't spell "February" without spellchecker help AND I often say "Liberry" instead of library, knowing full well it pisses people off).

PS: In case you needed proof of the hubris that is Oprah: apparently she had the fucking GALL to sue Mutual of Omaha over an uncopyrighted phrase that's been in the American lexicon since at least 1939. Because she's apparently 1) immortal (the only way she could've "invented" that phrase...and the idea creeps me the fuck out) and 2) so important that gold flake falls from her lips instead of spittle. Just...ugh.

Fuck you, Websters Dictionary for putting shitty slang into the goddamn dictionary as though it's actual English. Next you'll be adding "Liberry," for crying out loud.

In other, non-ranty, news: it appears some interesting searches have resulted in views of my blog. I'm baffled about what someone was looking for when googling "hot pink stop sign." I mean...really.

I'd like to point out that if someone's itchy after going to Valleyfair it may be time for a shower. What the hell...just...what the hell.

Sunday, August 12, 2012

On my 35th birthday (which was Friday) I met Jenny Lawson. (I also received a beautiful necklace and various forms of most excellent sappiness from my husband, but those are mine and I'm not sharing).

I stood in line for the book signing after hearing her read a chapter of her book, Let's Pretend This Never Happened. If you haven't picked it up yet GO BUY IT NOW. You'll laugh your ass off. She was funny and charming and I (according to my husband) was awkward and looked fairly constipated when I met her. Of course I did...the bruised tailbone I received a few months ago when I fell down my stairs felt like someone was stabbing me in the butt after two hours in a metal folding chair AND I had just enough people in front of me in line to give myself major anxiety about just saying hello to the woman. I'm sure my face was pinched and whatever I said was ridiculous. Sigh.

(Ok I'll be honest: I remember every word exchanged and exactly what I was thinking at the time, because I couldn't get a fucking NORMAL sentence out of my mouth or sound like a friendly person and the internal me just kept screaming "JUST BE NICE YOU DUMBASS!!")

I DID manage to give her a bottle of wine (Mad Housewife, because it always makes me laugh) and get a picture without falling down. Hopefully I didn't terrify her, because it was decidedly a high point to my birthday.

Of course, if meeting Jenny was one of the high points, there must be a counterpoint. Indeed...let me tell you how I almost shit my pants last night. Because I can't just get drunk on my birthday weekend and get hungover like everyone else...OH NO. I get my body's overactive rebel-forces going all Swat Team instead. Because that's how I roll, apparently.

Yesterday evening my sister, her partner (significant other and baby daddy sound stupid when I write them out), my aunt and her family all went to dinner at Cheesecake Factory. We chatted and ate tasty food and cheesecake without any major mishaps.

Only when everyone left my guts were...complainey. Yes, that's the best term for it. So I went back in, but the women's bathroom was full of teenage stripper wannabees in platform six inch spike heels. Watching them dance back and forth on those silly shoes waiting impatiently to pee would've been hilarious, except there were six of them and only three stalls. And at this point my guts were SIGNIFICANTLY MORE COMPLAINEY. Did you know there's NO WAY to cross your legs as a last resort in that situation? There isn't. I tried. Also, I imagined the chorus of "EWW" if I actually got a chance to get into a stall, and I gave up.

Hoping I could at least get into my car and sit (which might help) I hobbled all the way across the large parking lot, cursing my IDIOCY for just parking and not valet-ing the entire way. I'm sure I looked like I had a broken leg. I sat in the mustang, because of COURSE this only happens when I'm in the nice car, and begged God to let me NOT poop my pants in the middle of the Southdale parking lot. Sigh.

Once I could move again (a good five minutes passed of a sweat-and-curse inducing battle for bowel control) I started the car and left the parking lot. As fast as that sports car can go...and she can indeed go FAST. Until I'm stuck behind a blue-haired old lady who insists on creeping through the intersection (there were NO GODDAMN CARS COMING you idiot...MOVE YOUR ASS!!), screaming at her. My windows were up, thank you, and it was dark, so I'm fairly certain she didnt' see me wishing for her immediate smiting.

I made it two blocks to a CVS, chanting "just another minute, be an adult and control yourself!" under my breath the whole way. Then I tried desperately to hobble nonchalantly into the pharmacy (BLESSEDLY EMPTY).

Those fucking pharmacies are HUGE and the restrooms are not labeled anywhere. I think when I finally found the women's room I would've just given up if it'd been occupied. It wasn't. Thank the gods for small miracles.

Of course, as I washed my hands I realized there are cameras everywhere in these stores, and undoubtedly I'm on tape frantically searching for the bathroom and duck-walking in there. Determined to look like I Meant to stop at CVS, I thought "well I'll just pick up some water like I was thirsty."

Yeah right. Like that'll fool ANYONE.

So I grabbed some feminine hygiene products also, because why else would a woman my age stop at a pharmacy at 10pm on a Saturday night?

Of COURSE the cashier was a boy. Sigh. And of COURSE he started a discussion with me about how funny it is when women send their husbands in for tampons. We laughed at the oddities of pharmacy cashiering (my first actual job was doing just that) and how weird it is when someone buys a box of condoms and a box of enemas. Because if I'm going to be embarrassed about something, I like to take it ALL the way. He totally knew I was only there to poop.

All plans today have been cancelled in favor of staying home and taking Imodium. And cheesecake. Oddly enough, the chapter Jenny read on Friday was the one about...ahem...foolishly taking too many laxatives. It's hilariously gross and even better when she read it out loud (now I have to re-read the book so I have her voice narrating in my head...because I'm like that). Today I'm pretty fucking sure that particular choice in readings was some sort of warning from the universe of my own impending doom.

Thursday, August 09, 2012

Today I spent quite a bit of time screwing off (in a non-sexual, work-appropriate way). As has been my usual MO for the past week or two...because projects have been delayed by forces not in my control (I SWEAR I didn't wave that wand toward work!!).

Therefore, I spend much of my afternoon fucking around on Craigslist. Since that phrase could mean quite a few different inappropriate behaviors, oh DO let me share the best DOD: Distractions of the Day.

Witness: Kiss Car. Note it's for sale to only the ULTIMATE fan of Gene Simmons. I sort of expect to see it tooling around St. Paul soon, since KISS is playing the MN state fair this year. Apparently bloody demon music is excellent family entertainment. (Wait Kiss Army! I've been to a few Kiss concerts and my husband's a huge fan. I think they're fucking fabulous. It's called sarcasm...stop threatening me and for fuck's sake PUT YOUR TONGUES AWAY.)

In other news, I firmly believe this is the BEST CAR AD EVER. I mean, it made me want to grow a beard AND drive a '95 goddam...erm...grand am. Plus, any ad that uses "Jesus Tap Dancing Christ" is a fucking winner in my book: told Husband he can't sell my truck until he comes up with an equally entertaining ad.

I also seriously considered quitting my job as a business analyst for a health-care-company in favor of becoming a dragonslayer, except that brought up the Dilemma of DragonSlaying. It sparked a whole ethical dilemma in today's email session:

Me: Being a fucking weirdo, my first thought was "but what if the red and green dragons are husband and wife dragons? I'm not killing someone's spouse. For FREE. WTF dude?"C: what if they have little baby Christmas themed dragon-ites? That's not cool man.Also if it's green there's a solid chance that it's Puff the Magic Dragon and, dude, that is nothing but good news. Seriously.Z: Do I get to keep a trophy of this dragon? Because I would mount it's wings on my car, that would look so fucking cool. Husband and Wife or Brother and Sister, either way I'm not risking encoring the lifetime wrath of a Dragon for no pay. The only way this would work is if the Dragon gave me half his heart and was actually Sean Connery. Although I still wouldn't kill it then.

Tuesday, August 07, 2012

So my birthday is coming up soon, hence the title. This is not a plea for birthday shenanigans, presents, or anything else. It's just a silly post (well, most of them are).

Normally, I get all anxious and depressed around my birthday and obsess about all the things I haven't done yet. For example: I foolishly thought I'd have a whole series of books under my belt (written, not read, duh) by the time I turned 35, but now that day is fast approaching (ACK it's this fucking WEEK) and I'm still in the middle of book 1 with the outline for two other series waiting impatiently on my desk. Not two other books: two other series of books. My brain is getting blocked up, people.

The characters for those series' appear regularly in dreams, knock politely during meetings at work, move furniture in my head while I'm making dinner, and scream in my ear while I choreograph for dance class. Sigh. They're insistent and relentless, and I think I'm finally ready to set aside book 1 for a while in favor of giving them some attention. It's a big decision I've been agonizing over for a few months: feels quite like I'm abandoning my first kid in favor of another. I really like the general idea for my first series, but I'm 30k words in and, well, to be brutally honest I'm boring MYSELF...therefore something is fatally wrong. It's not violent enough, too violent, not sexy enough, not complicated enough, too complicated...I've been trying to figure out what the issues are so I can fix them and move on, but after two years of work I don't think there's any fix right now. I think it's time to say buh-bye for a while and focus on something else.
Like the other four couples banging around in my head trying desperately to get out on paper.

And clearly I've not yet had enough coffee, since I'm rambling on about writing when this is SUPPOSED to be a birthday post. Fail on my part: sorry.

Every year I'm required by my family (parents, sisters, husband) make a list of shit I haven't bought for myself already so they can get presents I actually want. The list is generally books (because I'm a fucking addict and NEVER buy all the books I really want), movies/tv shows, and random other fun shit.

Since I was about twelve, all birthday/Christmas lists have included three inexpensive staples that I can always use and offer a cheap alternative to the hardcovers on my list: candles, bath stuff, and hair doodies.

Yes. Hair doodies. I'm a writer and former English major who makes up words. My husband gave me shit about that word for nearly a full day via text, because he's a buttface who enjoys my mentalness. I told him he doesn't have to buy me any: they're a go-to-inexpensive-girly gift: the equivalent of stocking stuffers for me. *shrug* And on the scale of importance for birthday celebrations, they're not terribly high. I mean, my title is pretty clear about my priorities, right?

This year, however, all celebrations may be trumped by one massively exciting event. I get to meet The Bloggess ON MY BIRTHDAY. That's right, one of my all time favorite writers will be in my town on my bday. This is a pretty fucking banner happening (actually more than when I met Mercedes Lackey at Convergence a few years ago) and I'm so fucking excited I'm getting anxious today...it's Tuesday.

She's here on Friday.

I'm hoping turning 35 will give me just enough adult-ness to NOT make a total fangirl ass of myself. I will NOT bring her wine (even though I want to) or squeak or do anything too monumentally stupid. I will NOT bring her wine (even though I want to) or squeak or do anything too monumentally stupid...see where I'm going with this?